A Gift of Joy
by Rhovandil
Summary: Aragorn helps a young Gondorian. Set during his time as Thorongil.


**A Gift of Joy**

Disclaimer: Many thanks to Prof. Tolkien for creating the world of Middle Earth. I gladly accept that it is not mine.

Summary: Aragorn helps a young Gondorian. Written for the Teitho Challenge "Smile", where it tied for third.

Rating: K+

**Northern Ithilien, Gondor  
****T.A. 2962**

Thorongil shook out his blankets and unlaced his new tunic of muted green and brown. The tunic was part of the uniform that was fitted for him when he was promoted captain of this band of Ithilien Rangers. It was the evening of his third day with the men. Nay, he corrected himself with a surge of pride, not just the men anymore. My men.

Thorongil was satisfied with his new company. Some of his men needed more practice on their weaponry and woodcraft, but that was to be expected, and Thorongil was eager to help them improve. They were in good spirits, glad to help defend the land against the Enemy, and wasn't that all that mattered? He'll make this company a force to be reckoned with. No more will orcs defile the ancient lands of the Dunedain; no more will they lay villages to waste; no more will they leave behind grieving young widows and fatherless babes. And maybe, just maybe, he'll find a way to claim his birthright, and with it seek Arwen's hand and her father's consent …

He stretched out on his bedroll and tried to work out a training regimen for the more inexperienced members of his company. Giliath has a keen eye, and would make a good archer. A shuffle outside marked the last of his men leaving the campfire for their bedrolls. How to improve their tracking skills? Perhaps pair up his men and have them trail each other. In the bushes, a fox called loudly for its denmates. Naurluin is an excellent swordsman. Perhaps he could help train the youngsters, and … But he found that he could neither concentrate, nor fall asleep. It was early spring. The land was stirring, and he felt restless. Perhaps he should see that his horse was bedded down comfortably for the night.

Outside, the campfire had been carefully banked. The men on watch were mere shadows drifting in the starlit forest. All seemed asleep and quiet. But wait, one man was awake yet, at the edge of the clearing that served as the cooking area and evening gathering place. He sat with his elbows on his knees; the moonlight bathed his face and for a moment his eyes glistened, almost elven like. Thorongil walked closer, and saw that it was one of the young recruits, caressing an intricately carved paper weight in his hands. He seemed lost in thought.

Quietly, so as not to startle the youth, he asked, "Handir, son of Amarthaer. Is it not?"

The man looked up at Thorongil, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Nay sir, Seregur is my father."

Seregur … Thorongil frowned. The name touched upon some old memory, of a campfire, a late night chat near a river. But the harder he tried to chase down the elusive memory, the faster it fled, ever beyond his reach. So he sat down next to the lad, but neither spoke for a few moments.

Thorongil broke the silence, "That is an interesting paper weight you have there."

Handir gently ran his thumb over its smooth surface. "Aye, sir. Father bought it for me in Pelargir. It is a white ship of the Teleri."

Thorongil smiled. "A learned soldier. I see you know your history."

Handir blushed, and said, "A little. Not much about the elves, really." Upon Thorongil's expectant gaze, he added, "I was apprenticed to a bookmaker, and I read his books. But they were mostly about the history of Gondor. It's quite interesting." He hesitated slightly. "But I like my numeracy better. I helped some of the shopkeepers balance their books, back in Minas Tirith."

They lapsed into silence again. The watch changed, and Tilion travelled ever closer to the zenith of the sky. Presently Thorongil said, "It's late, Handir. Get some sleep. There's work to be done tomorrow."

Now he sat alone in the clearing, thinking. Seregur … He's heard the name before. He's sure of it. Pelargir, Seregur bought the paper weight for his son in Pelargir. He remembered Pelargir. He had been there once, with some Rangers from various companies of Ithilien, to escort back a supply train. He remembered the Anduin, wider than any river he had seen before, wavy like the sea. That's it! Seregur was in that company.

Now that he knew where he had met the man, a flood of memory washed through his mind. Seregur was a middle aged soldier and a good swordsman. Quiet, but quick to smile. He talked about his elderly mother and a son who had almost completed his apprenticeship. Alas, few months later, Thorongil heard that Seregur had died when orcs ambushed his company. But the rumor was vague, and his company had been busy repelling the enemy, so Thorongil never gave it much thought.

A chill wind started, and Thorongil shivered slightly, whether from the thinness of his undershirt or the unpredictability of the future, he did not know. He stood up and shook off his melancholy mood. Like every soldier in Ithilien, Seregur had been prepared to give everything to defend the land he had loved, and his son seemed willing to do the same. In the memory of Seregur, Thorongil vowed to himself, he'll look after young Handir, train him into a good ranger, and help him avenge his father's death.

**A fortnight later  
****Northern Ithilien, Gondor  
****T.A. 2962**

Thorongil wiped the sweat from his brows and laughed. "Well done, you two!" He said. "That was a nice, solid blow, Magor. But remember what I said about that move leaving you open for a moment." The youth in question beamed with pride. "And Handir, you were very quick to take the advantage and score the hit. Now, had you hit just a little higher you would have incapacitated me." Handir nodded, adjusted his grip on the sword, and took his stance, ready for another bout.

They started again, Thorongil easily blocking the blows the young men directed at him. They really weren't skilled enough to beat him yet; he was only distracted last time, dividing his attention between Naurluin sparring with Giliath and Mallenaur, and his lieutenant Tologion training with the other men. Still, nothing wrong with a bit of encouragement now and then. The swordmasters of Rivendell had always been encouraging to him, even though he knew he'd never equal those elven lords, with their fluid grace and millennia of experience. Handir had seemed a little downhearted these past few days, perhaps this will help lift his spirits.

To be fair, the lads were improving rapidly. Magor shows all the promise of becoming an excellent swordsman, and Handir was quick on his feet, with an intuitive understanding of how to get past his opponents' guard. Both were eager and hardworking. Nay, definitely nothing wrong with some encouraging remarks.

**A week later  
****Northern Ithilien, Gondor  
****T.A. 2962**

The orc fell to the ground with a gargle. Thorongil quickly ended its life, and scanned his surroundings. Five lumps lay on the ground, indistinguishable in the darkness.

"Rangers, sound off." he commanded.

"Naurluin."

"Cúron."

A pause. "Handir?"

"I'm here."

"Is anyone hurt?"

Murmurs of no. Thorongil sighed in relief.

"Good, let's head back to camp."

Quietly, he lead them through the inky darkness, ever alert for signs of the orcs and other foul creatures. Behind him, he could hear Handir's quiet breathing, the near silent patter of Cúron's soft shoes, and Naurluin's slow, measured tread a little further away. A gulp of air, the sound of a throat being cleared quietly. Naurluin's steady steps quickened for a few strides as he walked closer. Is one of the men injured? sick? He did not slow. Too dangerous to check on his men out here. Naurluin will let him know if one of them needed to stop.

A hint of light had appeared on the Eastern horizon when they arrived back at camp. By the dim glow of a veiled lantern, he scanned his men for injuries. All looked exhausted, but unhurt, so he sent them off to their rest, and the men drifted off in the direction of their tents.

He watched Handir's retreating back, less straight than is its wont, and realized that this was probably the lad's first battle. Had he managed to kill an orc? Did he find battles to be what he expected? Thorongil remembered his own first battle. The shivery anticipation, the foul breath of the orc, the knowledge that the blade clanging against his own could end his life in the blink of an eye, and finally, after the battle, his sweat mixed with the black orc blood, the shaky exaltation mixed with disgust, disgust that it was a speaking creature he had killed, a descendant of the Quendi who awakened at Cuiviénen.

Handir's dark head bowed low as he stooped to enter his tent. The lad showed no excitement, no disgust, no disappointment … was it simply exhaustion? Or was something else ailing him?

Thorongil was startled as Naurluin, now freed of his gear, appeared at his side.

"Keep an eye on that boy, Captain." He said, and turned towards the mass tent to break his fast.

**A few days later  
****Northern Ithilien, Gondor  
****T.A. 2962**

Thorongil looked at the man sitting in front of him, and hid a sigh.

His voice, however, betrayed none of his frustration. "Tell me, Handir. You've been here for a month. Is the life of a Ranger to your liking?"

Handir looked up at him for a moment, then resumed his intense study of his boots.

"Aye, sir." He whispered after a few seconds.

That is obviously not the truth, Thorongil decided. Handir had never been the talkative, laughing man that his fellow recruit Mallenaur was, but he had the easy smile of his father, and the inquisitive mind of a scholar. He had laughed with the men around the campfire, and grinned good-naturedly at their teasing; he had taken his turns at storytelling in the evenings, and watched with curiosoty as Thorongil treat the minor maladies that happened at camp.

All this had changed. He had taken to avoiding his fellow rangers, staying in his tent when off duty, only coming out at meal times. Granted, he never slacked in his duties, but the eager determination he had a few weeks ago was gone. He ate little, talked less, and smiled not at all. Thorongil had given him some time to sort out his troubles, or to speak with one of the older men, but he had done neither. Time for a more direct approach.

"Handir," Thorongil squatted down in front of the young man. "Talk to me. You are clearly not happy here. What's wrong?"

The man in question remained stubbornly silent.

"Handir, please, tell me, what has been bothering you lately?"

Handir still refused to look at Thorongil; his lower lip jutted out, almost in child-like petulance. But Thorongil could see the dam breaking behind the rigid face. He laid a hand on Handir's knee, and waited.

Sure enough, the young man's lower lip quivered, and he suddenly said, "I wanted to become a soldier to avenge father and grandmother, but …" He shook his head in frustration, took a deep breath, and said in a more composed manner.

"I've lived with my grandmother since I was young. Mother died when I was a babe, and Father was a Ranger. He knew I am interested in scholarly pursuits, and apprenticed me to a bookmaker. It wasn't easy. Not everyone thought it appropriate for a soldier's son from a farming family to go into scholastics, and Father didn't want to entrust me to just anyone, either. But he managed it, and we were content, the three of us, especially when Father came home on leaves." His eyes took up a distant look, as if reliving happy memories, then they dulled again.

"Father died last year, whilst on duty. Grandmother and I travelled to Ithilien for his burial. He grew up in Ithilien, you see. We didn't move to Minas Tirith until after I was born. He didn't want us staying in Ithilien by ourselves, Grandmother and I. So we came to Ithilien for his burial, but …" He bit his lips. "We came, but they wouldn't let me see his … his … see him." He trailed off, but Thorongil understood. The body had been so mutilated that they did not want the child to see it.

"Go on." He said softly.

"Grandmother was grief stricken. She passed away that winter. I made up my mind to become a soldier. To avenge their deaths. To prevent anyone else's family from getting killed. But … I –" He shook his head in frustration.

"You don't want to be a soldier anymore."

Handir winced and nodded. "I don't have what it takes, it seems. That orc, it rushed at me. I was scared. I closed my eyes and swung at it. I kept expecting to feel its blade – ending my life. Then I felt my own blade in its flesh, grating against its bones. And I kept wondering if that is what it felt like when – when they – when Father died." He hang his head.

You are not the only one who feels the horrors of war, Thorongil thought, even we seasoned soldiers are not as calloused as you may think. But out loud he only said mildly, "There is a saying where I came from – 'The stallion does poorly when used as a mule'. Do not fault yourself for not liking another man's work. Gondor does not force her sons into the military. You were almost done with your apprenticeship, were you not? Finish it."

There was a hint of sadness in Handir's voice when he spoke next. "I can't."

"Why not?" Thorongil asked. "That's what your father would have wanted, is it not? It seems he went through much trouble to find you the apprenticeship."

Handir was quiet for awhile, then the word tumbled out in a rush. "All of my friends were joining the Guard or other companies. And now that I've been out here, I can not go back to the safety of Minas Tirith, while others risk their lives for its safety. But I don't want to kill anything either. Orcs I can get used to, maybe. But what if we were invaded by the Southrons?" His voice became almost plaintive.

Thorongil thought for a moment. Here is a young man who wanted to serve his country, but did not know how. A young man with a sharp mind. Suddenly, the solution came upon him.

"There are other ways of service, Handir," he said. "Have you ever thought of how we get our food?"

Handir blinked, but did not reply. So Thorongil continued. "Food is the one important thing that every company needs to keep functioning. The food for the Ithilien Ranging companies come through Cair Andros. The Logistics Division there keeps the supply trains rotating through the companies, so each of the hundreds of rangers get their rations, no matter the weather or the road conditions. They make sure messages get to where they need to go, that the soldiers get their stipends, that we do not lack for other necessities – shoes, torches, bowstrings, tallow, all sorts of things."

Understanding dawned in Handir's face. His eyes lit up, as Thorongil had not seen in weeks. "And they need men there?"

"Yes indeed." Thorongil grinned at the young man's eagerness. "Men who can read and write and do arithmetics. It's not an easy life, no. Especially during times of conflict and hardship, when they often have to work day and night. But your skills will be put to good use there, and I believe you will find it rewarding."

Handir stood up, his face split into a brilliant smile. "May I … that is, may I transfer there then?"

"Not today!" Thorongil laughed. "The couriers are due to come tomorrow. You can travel to Cair Andros with them, and I'll send along a message to the Head of Logistics."

As he watched Handir leave the tent, his back straight, his arms swinging exuberantly, a spring in his steps, Thorongil could not help but smile. There was an old Shire saying in the North, that the gift of joy is the most cherished of all. It was March the first, and he felt that he had just given Handir a gift, hobbit fashion.


End file.
